


Not Always a Bullet

by Anonymous



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Canon-typical language, Explicit Language, Friendship, Gen, Illness, Injury, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They're both better at dealing with the more straightforward threats of bullets and betrayal. Sometimes, though, they get hit by something sideways.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> An interlude crisis in the midst of an unnamed mission, set loosely between the series of Shadow Warfare and Legacy. It's multi-chapter but still a short one. Still just getting my writing legs back. Thanks again to all who read my first venture with these guys.

*

"No more rivers, Michael," Damien says from the cot two feet away from Michael's own. His voice is weary and it echoes in the blue-grey darkness. The defunct storefront they're cribbed in is too empty—encased in too much cement.

"I hear you," Michael answers, feeling very much the same.

"No rivers. No jungles. No bugs. Not for another month at least."

"Yeah. Yeah okay, deal."

"Too much vegetation. Poor mobility."

"Yeah. Agreed." Craning his head back to work out a kink in neck, Michael stares at the fissures in the tin roof. They're hardly visible, but the moon is shining, casting light through the cracks.

"I can't believe after all that, that Balewa bailed."

"Hmn." Michael can't help but agree with that one too. They'd both sworn a blue streak when they'd hit the road to find it empty. In truth, the only real win in their miserable day had been making it back to the exfil point before running out of ammo. Still. "We're meant to be sleeping, mate," he reminds. 

Damien goes quiet. In the shadows of the livid atmosphere, Michael hears him shift and fidget. Then—

"And for the record, I hate alligators." 

"They were crocodiles, mate." And hadn't _that_ been a close one. 

"No crocodiles in Colombia, Mikey."

"We're not in Colombia, Scott."

"Well we ain't in Baja. Not like we should be. Fuckin' Dalton."

Turning his head to the side, Michael squints. "What?"

Damien shifts again, causing the cot to creak. "The plan was always to come back to 20, wasn't it, Mike?"

Michael blinks into the darkness. "I'm not following you here, mate. You okay?" There's enough light that he can see Damien's profile. Enough light that he can see the twitch of his chin as he prepares to say something more. Before he closes his mouth. Then opens it again.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry. We're… it's not Baja. I know. Not… Kosovo. That was… that was… Where are we, Mikey?"

Michael rolls off his cot, staring down at Damien in the bluish light. After a beat, he presses his palm to Scott's forehead and holds it there.

"…the fuck are you doing?"

" _Shit_." Standing up, Michael crosses to the long desk near the wall, switching on the sputtering lamp.

"… the fuck did I do?"

"You have a fever." Michael grabs the lantern torch for good measure, carrying it back over to hang on a hook above Damien's head, casting them both in yellow light. Scott's eyes are glassy.

"Mike?"

"Hold still." Hunkering down, Michael takes a breath and proceeds methodically, checking wrists and ankles first. There are some vague spots, possibly bites from mosquitoes, but not anything he'd call a rash - yet. Moving back up, he starts with Damien's head, running his thumbs behind his ears and then up into his hairline.

Nothing.

"What are you doing?"

He sweeps downward next, rucking up Damien's shirt while scanning over his chest and sides. "Come on, sit up," he orders.

"What the fuck, Mikey?" Damien protests, but he follows, staying loosely compliant through the manhandling.

"That's good. Now lean forward."

Damien does, dropping his forehead onto the outside edge of Michael's shoulder without seemingly meaning to. He groans. "Head feels fucking heavy, dude."

"Yeah, just stay up for a minute."

Down by Damien's waist, right over his spine, Michael finds what he's looking for. "Shit," he repeats. "I'm going to lay you down again, but I want you to roll over, stay on your side, okay?"

"Michael?"

"You have a tick."

"A what? Fuck me." Clumsily, he complies, but tries to reach his hand back the moment his head is down. "Tick Fever? You think I have Tick Fever? Are you fucking serious?"

Michael grabs his wrist, noting the skin quality. Hot and dry. Gently, he redirects it to rest back down on the cot. "I've got it, mate. Take it easy."

Damien exhales, rolling his face into his makeshift pillow. "Just pull the fuckin' thing out. No big deal, Mikey."

 _Yes it is,_ Michael thinks. He clamps down his jaw before he actually says it. "Stay put," he orders instead. "Richmond left the med supply in the bunker with the tools. I'll be right back."

"Yeah. Yeah, staying put."

*

tbc


	2. Two

*

Dragging a spare bench over from the wall, Michael drops the med kit onto it, then hangs another lantern torch near the cot, giving himself as much light as possible.

Still on his side, Damien squints at the brightness, his eyes strained and washed out. Reflexively, he starts to roll backwards, onto his back.

"Hey." Michael takes a quick step sideways, catching his shoulder and holding him in place. "Stay put, okay?"

Damien looks up, tracking slowly. The action looks painful for him, like he's compensating for a stiff neck. The fever evident.

_Shit._

"I'm okay, Mikey."

"I know, just stay on your side, yeah? Just for a bit longer."

When it seems like Damien is going to comply, Michael pats his shoulder, then releases it. Unzipping the bag, he hooks a stool with his ankle, drawing it up behind, where he can sit near Damien's hip. It puts him a bit higher than the cot, allowing him to still track his partner's face.

"Thought you were getting Richmond?" Damien says, scanning around the room with a tactical focus, though his eyes are dulled.

"No. Just went to where she stored the med supply. Richmond's off playing diplomatic liaison with Martinez and the colonel, remember?"

Damien swallows, the action obvious in the more pronounced lighting.

"Remember?" Michael prods.

But no, Damien doesn't. Michael can see it in the way his hands fidget, and in the set of his jaw. He knows confusion when it manifests in Scott's body language as well as his own, after all. "Hey, you with me?"

"Richmond's with the colonel?"

"That's right." Finding the paracetamol injections, Michael takes one out, prioritizing the fever. If he can't get that managed, the rest is unlikely to matter. Purposefully, he keeps his voice light. "I know I'm not as pretty as her, but in this case, I think I'll do."

"She's … with Colonel… Grant?"

Michael pauses. "Colonel Locke." He says it casually, neutrally, while swabbing Damien's deltoid muscle and promptly piercing it with the needle.

"Fuck."

"Hold still." Pulling the needle out, he caps it for disposal. Setting aside a saline pack, and a peripheral line, he starts looking for the doxy. It's not his most proficient skill, but he can set an IV. Evac to hospital isn't feasible at the moment, and they can't wait for that anyway.

"Mike…"

Squeezing his shoulder, Michael scrubs a thumb across his neck. "Don't worry about it, mate. It's just the fever. We're going to get it managed, get the tick out, and you're going to be fine. Just give it a little time, and your mind will stop playing tricks on you, yeah?"

Damien shivers slightly, his muscles tense as he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there's a concentrated quality to his gaze. "Crap. You sound more worried than me."

"Bullshit," Michael says on reflex.

Damien exhales—a sound like a laugh. "You do though… sound worried." His eyebrows are creased. "You worried about this, Mikey?"

"I'm not," he denies. "I just…" He breaks off, more abruptly than he intends. For a brief moment he feels it—weary to his bones. "This just hasn't been our day, you know?"

"Yeah." Damien blinks, letting his eyes drop closed again even though he keeps talking. "But it's like you said… just a fever. You didn’t find a rash, right? We caught it early." He's sounding more lucid—is talking like a grown up again—but there's heat radiating from the back of his neck, into Michael's palm, and his breathing is shallow. No telling how long that will hold. "Not everything's life or death, bud."

Michael snorts. "Of course not. Only most things. For us anyway."

"This ain't one of 'em. There are worse things than Tick Fever."

It should be gratifying, that Damien at least remembers that much, but... "The rates of contraction and mortality in this area would refute you, mate."

Damien squints, rocking his head a little to catch Michael's eye over his shoulder. "You trying to freak me out?"

Quickly shaking his head, Michael breathes out. "No." He almost laughs. "No. You're right, we have what we need, and we caught it in time. You're going to be fine."

"Then shut up and pull the fucking thing already."

Regrouping, Michael draws back, running a hand across his face. Damien isn't sweating, which makes fluids the next priority. "IV first, then we'll take care of it."

The line doesn't take long to set. Scott is dehydrated but cooperative. The vein gives him a little trouble, but it's done soon enough. Michael hangs the saline, adds the doxy, then sits back down, readying the tweezers.

The site around the bite is an angry red, but there's no eschar—not yet anyway. And he wonders if he's a fool, looking for and counting tallies of potentially positive signs. It's ridiculous anyway. They have the right treatment. They're in a secure location. He's not going to lose his partner to a bite infection. Not as long as the fever comes down.

He taps Damien's shoulder blade. "Ready?"

"Been ready."

Getting a gentle grip with the tweezers while balancing the angle with a hand to Scott's ribs, he pulls steadily, watching and waiting to get the head to detach.

"You get it?"

"Yeah."

"All of it?"

"Yep." Dropping the tick into a disposal pack, he pulls another swab, setting about cleaning the small wound. When it's taped up, Damien's still on his side, blinking steadily. Not sleeping, but no longer trying to move at all.

There is little left to keep Michael occupied beyond tracking vitals. Which he does, planning ahead in his mind, trying to figure out at which point he'll try for an Evac, and if it comes to that, how he'll go about it. They're in a blackout zone, and he won't see or hear from the team for another 24 hours minimum. Either way, he has time.

A quiet settles over the space as he watches for a change, waiting for his partner's breathing to deepen, or for his temperature to drop.

Picking up Scott's wrist, he focuses on measuring his pulse, hoping he'll find something different than last time. It has a thready quality, but is holding steady.

"Damien?" he asks, because Scott is still awake, and is seemingly going to stay that way. 

"Yeah?"

"You want to tell me where you think we are right now?"

"I don't have a concussion, Mike."

"I know."

There is a pause, protracted and heavy. Damien stares at the wall, breathing in through his nose. "I know… I know we're not in Colombia," he finally answers, his voice sounding strained.

"But it feels to you like we are?"

Damien swallows. "I remember the river... getting to the road. And I know… I know Colonel Grant is dead. And I... And… Dalton." He trails off, voice lowered as he blinks into the distance. "Porter. Baxter. Sinclair. … Re… Rebecca."

Kate.

Kerry.

Michael can't help but continue down the list.

This is their world. And it feels inevitable.

Unconsciously, he puts a hand on Scott's head, rubbing over his hair, scrubbing at his temple. The heat remains evident, growing more pronounced.

"Fuck, Michael."

"It's okay. Your fever's still too high, but you're safe for another dose. I'm going to give it now. You should try to get some sleep."

"Been trying. You too, bud."

"Soon. Do me a favor and let your fever come down first."

"Working on it."

"Good. Keep working."

"Yeah. Yeah. Copy that."

Standing to lean over the kit, he draws out the next injection. One step at a time, he reminds himself.

*

tbc


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the massive delay. I thought I was through dealing with something that I wasn't. But, better late than never... right?
> 
> Just a reminder that this fic doesn't have much of a plot and holds little concern for pacing. In short, no writing masterpieces will be found here.

*

The fever digs its claws in. 

With the IV drip, Scott starts sweating, but his temperature keeps surging back between injections. The result is a quiet hyper vigilance—a wary Damien caught in a perpetual state of silent confusion, gripped by some strained worry he won't voice.

Not for the first time, Michael is tempted to give him something to knock him out. But, in the dead of night, that thin thread of connection—of cognizance—it isn't something he's willing to lose. He's uncertain if he'll get it back. With how doggedly the fever is hanging on, it no longer feels like paranoia to think so.

He waits instead. In the blank silence. Killing the clock.

Measuring time against his own impatience, he paces toward the drab cement wall, toward the door out to the empty hallway, where his footsteps echo into the darkness. Then back again.

From the cot, Scott stares heavily and dully in his direction, tracking his progress. Watching.

Stopping to rub at the back of his neck, Michael sighs, watching in return.

Unexpectedly, Damien moves, rolling backward and reaching for the tape against his elbow.

"Shit." In four rapid steps, Michael catches Damien's wrist, pulling his hand away just as he's about to yank out the IV. "Damien. Hey. Stop. _Stop_." With regret, he positions his fingers over the pressure points in Scott's wrist, while his knee hovers, ready to lock down over the shoulder joint if necessary.

"Scott! Hey, Scott—Damien, hey, it's me. It's me. Okay? It's just me."

Rigid, glaring warily, Scott scans his face, tense but motionless in Michael's grip.

"You with me?"

Blinking intently, Damien says nothing. For a man who's always prized his memory, Michael thinks, this must be hell.

"Hey," he repeats, lowering his voice, trying to give Damien a focal point. "You with me?"

The blink comes slower this time, but the gaze is no less intent. "Yeah." The word finally emerges, short and rasping.

"Good. You remember my name?" 

Damien swallows, visibly. His teeth clench and release. He looks angry that he has to say it. Angry that it isn't on the tip of his tongue. "Michael."

Exhaling abruptly, Michael sits back, the relief more profound than he expects. "Good," he says. "That's… good." 

"Fuck." Damien closes his eyes, then springs them open, straining to keep them on Michael's face. "Sorry."

"Don't," Michael cuts him off, the word rising from the bottom of his lungs. Slowly, he steadies his breath and tries again. "Don't… worry about it, mate. Just take it easy, and stay with me, okay?"

"Yeah." Damien ticks his strained gaze around the hollowed space. "Fuck. Mike. We okay here?"

"Yeah. We're okay here. We're in the crib. And we're not under threat. Got it?"

Damien nods, though he relaxes only a fraction, and, after a moment, his hand moves, reaching again for the IV.

Michael stops him, more gently this time, catching his wrist. "You're going to want to leave that alone, mate. Trust me." 

Staring, Damien twitches as though coming to awareness again. "Right." He shifts, hip bumping against Michael as he fidgets. "Right. We alone?"

"Just you and me," Michael answers casually as he reaches over, checking that the IV wasn't dislodged. "Getting you an evac wouldn't be out of order, but… we don't really have that option at the moment."

Damien looks confused. Or rather, more confused. "For a fever?"

"It's one hell of a fever, buddy." Grabbing the cold pack that Damien dislodged in their minor scuffle, and feeling like the most pathetic of all nursemaids, Michael resituates it across his forehead.

Squinting suspiciously throughout the process, Damien frowns. For a second he appears to contemplate flipping Michael off, though ultimately doesn't. Michael isn't certain if that means he doesn't have the energy, or if he just can't really remember why he'd be doing it.

He prods at it. "What are you thinking about?"

Fingers joggling, casting shadows across the cot under the wary yellow light, Damien grimaces, giving Michael a tired look. "I'm thinking… I'm thinking I have a kid I've never met, and it'd be really fuckin' pathetic if you had to tell him I died because of a tick bite."

Michael almost smiles. It's a horrible thing to feel cheered by, but it's the most lucid thing Damien has said in hours. He searches for some quip—something light to shoot back—but it won't come. "Yeah it would. So don't put me in that position, yeah?" he says instead, painfully serious.

"Fuck me—really been that bad?"

Pushing off the cot and settling heavily onto the nearby stool to face Damien more directly, Michael nods, bumping his knees against the edge of the frame as he leans forward. "More serious than I'd like." Moving the cold pack, he presses the back of his knuckles to Scott's forehead. "Temp might be coming down now. Let's hope that lasts, eh?" Dropping his elbows onto his knees, he takes another, gathering breath. "What else do you remember?"

Scott blinks at the ceiling, working his jaw before responding. "Not much." His eyes slide to Michael. "—I been talking?"

"No. You've been pretty quiet. Though before, you were talking about Colombia. You remember that?"

"Yeah." Damien glances away again, eyes pinched. Michael watches the concentration in them—the effort to gather the loose threads of context and tie them together.

Outside their hovel, the wind picks up, whistling over the tin roof in a rush of bluster. It dies down as quickly as it came, leaving the silence to stretch between them. A comfortable silence, despite the underlying anxiety.

"Hey, Mike?" Damien eventually says, voice unobtrusively probing the space. 

"Yeah?"

"…didn't make you come back, did I? Or… you know, stay?"

"What, you mean with 20?"

"Yeah."

Michael takes a moment, oddly cognizant of the battle-worn callouses on his fingertips and the permanent dent in his leg where there'd once been a bullet. He's wondering if Damien is still thinking about their aborted leave to Baja, or about the diamonds they'd held onto when they'd thought they might need an exit plan, and had known they'd have no one to count on for it but themselves.

"No, Scott. You didn't make me come back. Or stay," he answers honestly. "Thought you knew by now—you can't really make me do anything. 'My life is my call,'" he quotes from one of their earliest arguments. "Remember?"

"Yeah," Damien says slowly. "Pissed me off at the time, but I remember."

Michael waits, watching, then presses. "Why are you asking?"

"Just wonder sometimes… how it would have gone… if we'd given it up."

"What, stayed on vacation indefinitely?"

"Or bailed with those diamonds. Got out before we… you know."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"You still think about it?"

"Maybe. Sometimes. You think we should have done it?"

"Sometimes, but… honestly, Mike? I don’t know if we're capable of it. I don't know what it would really take. I mean… Rebecca tried to get out and look where that got her."

"Rebecca." Michael digs his knees into the cot's frame, leaning slightly forward. "Is that what has you thinking about Colombia?"

Damien furrows his brow. "Probably. Or she's what Colombia has me thinking about—don't worry, I know we're not there. Not anymore." His hands twitch, like he wants to reach for the IV again, but doesn't. "Is it arrogant to think if we didn't do this, no one would?"

"Is it arrogant to think no one else would do it as well?" Michael retorts.

It at least gets a laugh.

Scrubbing his palms into his eye sockets without dislodging the IV, Damien exhales, breathing into their dingy surroundings, then lowers his hands, resting them on the hollow of his stomach. The rise and fall of his chest has become more even, his eyes less glazed, but his skin remains pale, the color of powdered eggs. "True as that might be, Mikey, we're all replaceable in the end. Aren't we? Then again, what would we even give it up for?"

Michael straightens the line of the IV, taking care to position it where it won't get tangled, then leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Are you thinking about Richmond, or Finn?"

Damien goes silent, but his expression flickers. "Finn doesn't know me. And Julia... even if I gave this shit up, I'm not sure she would."

"Do you want her to?"

"Yes. No. Fuck, this is who we are, Mikey." His fingers twitch, flexing beneath the curve of his ribs, over the scar where he once got shot coming to Michael's rescue as they tried to save a weapon smuggler's daughter. 

"We are what we are," Michael concedes.

"Soldiers."

"Soldiers," Michael agrees. 

"Can't really imagine doing anything else anyway," Damien mumbles. "It's just that—and don't hate me for this—sometimes, for your sake, maybe hers too, I wish we could. Just, get our shit together and—"

Michael rubs his head. "I know," he says, because he does. He knows exactly. He wants things for Damien. Things he's never even wanted for himself. And he understands now more than ever why Damien pushed him so hard to leave 20 when Kerry had been pregnant. Even though it'd pissed him off at the time.

And still, he knows Damien's under the delusion that it's Michael that deserves more. That it's Michael that deserves some sort of normal life. Like the possibility of it is even something he could get back to after all that's happened. That possibility died with Kerry, and they both know it.

Still.

"I know," he repeats, shaking his head beneath the hollow lamplight. Maybe someday. Maybe someday they'd figure out how to be become good old men.

Gathering his hands into fists, Damien abruptly shivers. 

Shedding the weight of the thickening atmosphere, Michael puts one palm on his forehead, steadying the cold pack while reaching over with the other, checking the IV. "Time for a new bag," he says, and gets to it, precise and efficient.

"Damien," he says when the task is done, and he's back to sitting on the stool, watching his still-awake partner laid low by something as simple as a tick. "If you ever did decide… to go. To stop. I got your back on that too, okay?"

Keeping his elbow on the cot, Damien lifts his hand up. Michael grips it automatically, familiarity and reflex.

"Same here, buddy. Same here."

*

tbc (with a short epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a very short epilogue to follow.


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

*

An ache has settled between Michael's shoulder blades. One he is far too familiar with. It's the clock-post mark of holding space too long without rest, or action. Twisting in his chair, attempting to ease it the spasm, his eyes fall on Damien, still asleep, as he has been since dawn.

Closing the computer case in front of him, Michael sighs and walks over. The skin on Damien's forehead and neck feels warm against his fingers, but he can tell the fever is dropping, settling in at a lower baseline. It's a positive direction, though he expects even after it fully abates, Scott'll be weak a few days yet.

Leaning back on his heels after another check to the IV, Michael glances at the computer he left perched on the workbench. Rising from his squat, he walks over to close it, before circling to sit heavily on his own cot. Elbows on knees. Head in hands. 

Their comms are still down, but even with the wind gaining strength outside their quarters, he'd been able to hook into the intermittently reliable local internet. Section 20's intranet encryption access remains blacked-out, and though he doesn't feel the need for an evac anymore, Michael is eased by the fact that he could still get a message through to HQ through other channels if he needed. 

Better now, however, if Damien isn't moved. As long as they have the supplies to keep him stable and improving—which they do—it's better to keep him still, let him rest.

Let them both rest.

Again, Michael considers lying down. His eyes are gritty with the need for it. Instead they fix on Damien's hands, folded on his stomach, moving with the rise and fall of his chest.

Slow and steady.

Up and down.

"Hey," Damien interrupts, without moving a muscle, or opening his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good." Michael blinks, sliding his elbows forward on his knees, adjusting to the change in rhythm. "You're meant to be sleeping, mate."

Damien's lips move, close enough to a smile to tell Michael that he remembers the conversation they'd been having before it all went downhill, and still he doesn’t move. "We both are, bud."

"Yeah." Michael watches. "In a bit."

"'m okay now, Mikey. You should get some sleep—you're no good dead on your feet. Besides, you said we were safe here. Not under threat."

"We are. Secure. All good."

"Then…"

Michael shakes his head, stretching out on his cot in compliance, staring blankly at the ceiling. "I hate it when you do this," he quips. 

"Shit. Did I start talking like a grown-up again?"

"It so rarely happens, I probably shouldn’t complain."

Damien laughs. A warm and tired exhale. But it gets the point across. "I have my moments," he insists.

Michael rolls his head to look at him, watching his breathing again, seeing his eyes are still closed. "You know I looked it up," he says after a minute, certain Damien hasn't really fallen back into sleep yet, weary and ashen as he looks.

"What's that?"

"Though more rare, there are crocodiles in Colombia, as well as alligators.

Damien laughs again. One sharp exhale, same as before. "Fuck you."

Michael smiles, closing his eyes, because he doesn't need to actually see it to know that Scott's flipping him off. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that's more like it."

* * *

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I watched an interview in which the cast members were talking about some of the crew getting Tick Fever while filming in a certain location. Thus, this interlude plot was born. There are more mild forms of Tick Fever, and more dangerous ones. It can kill or cause permanent damage if not caught in time. Treatment with Doxy, the sooner the better, is seemingly the recommended treatment. 
> 
> All that said, this is still just fanfiction, and I ain't no doctor. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
